glenncolerussell's reviews
1456 reviews

This book contains 26 tales of the macabre from French author Maurice Level (1875-1926), short tales, each 4 pages in length, written in the distinctively French ‘conte cruel’ tradition. Black Mask is the publisher, which is most appropriate since any of these stories could easily be included in one of those old Black Mask mystery magazines a reader could buy at the corner drug store years ago.

Similar to French fin-de-siècle decadent literature, the setting for the stories is usually Paris, and similar to 19th century romanticism, we are usually reading about the unfolding of a life-and-death issue. Level writes his stories with a particular flair – there is always a distinctive pop or twist at the end, the type of ironic twist made famous by O. Henry. With this in mind, I wouldn’t want to spoil the reader’s experience by saying too much about too many tales, so I will focus on one of the real gems in this collection, a story entitled ‘A Maniac’, which I’ve seen translated elsewhere as ‘A Madman’.

This tale opens with the lines, “He was neither malicious nor bloodthirsty. It was only that he had conceived a very special idea of the pleasures of existence. Perhaps it was that, having tried them all, he no longer found the thrill of the unexpected in any of them.” We read along as the tale fleshes-out what is meant by “a very special idea of the pleasure of existence” The unnamed main character attends the theater not to watch the play but in the hope a fire will break out; visits a fair in the hope beasts will attack their trainer; attends bullfights but is disappointed since the violence is too predictable. What he is after is the unexpected thrill. But when he experiences exactly what he is after, in the aftermath of these unexpected thrills, he becoming depressed, thinking there is no more reason to continue living.

Let’s pause here to ask: does this 19th century thrill-seeker anticipate an entire culture of thrill-seekers, people putting themselves or watching other people put themselves at risk on the edge for the sheer thrill of it? German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer judged our human life as an alternating between frustration and boredom. Is this seeking of thrills a radical attempt to transcend frustration and boredom? If so, this is hardly a flattering commentary on our natural capacity for joy and harmonious living.

The tale continues. Our thrill-seeker sees a poster displaying a daredevil event. We read, “It seemed that the cyclist dashed down the narrow path at full speed, went up round the loop, then down to the bottom. For a second during this fantastic performance, he was head downwards, his feet up in the air.” Inspired, our thrill-seeker buys an entire box of seats at the end of the track so he can watch the daredevil cyclist night after night without distraction. But then one night after the performance the cyclist approaches him and, in the course of conversation, explains how he can accomplish his extraordinary feat by focusing on a fixed point, the fixed point being the man sitting by himself in a box at the end of the track.

The next night monsieur thrill-seeker takes his usual seat. The cyclist pushes off, heading for his death-defying loop. We read, “Just at that moment, in the most natural way possible, the maniac rose, pushed back his seat, and went to one at the other side of the box. Then a terrible thing happened. The cyclist was thrown violently up in the air. His machine rushed forwards, flew up, and lurched out into the midst of the shrieks of terror that filled the hall, fell among the crowd. With a methodical gesture the maniac put on his overcoat, smoothed his hat on the cuff of his sleeve, and went out.”

Like the cyclist’s daredevil full circle, the end of the tale brings readers full circle to the tale’s opening line where the main character is described as “neither malicious nor bloodthirsty”. Really? How would we characterize someone who would intentionally act in a way causing the death of others merely to have a thrill? Wicked and cruel? Malicious and bloodthirsty? Any of these words seem to fit. So, we may ask if the tale’s narrator shares in the same madness as the man he is describing; or, to put it another way, is this tale-telling the product of a diseased mind, yet again another sick flower of decadent 19th century Baudelarean evil?

Max Nordau wrote an essay in 1894 where he used the term ‘decadent’ and judged many French writers and artists and a large sector of the French population as having diseased minds, that is, minds that are confused, discouraged and despairing. Perhaps, on some level, Maurice Level would agree with the confused, discouraged and despairing part, since his stories are filled with such people. Fortunately, reading his finely crafted tales is just the opposite experience: sheer enjoyment, like popping a box of expensive French chocolates in your mouth, one by one.

Osho is fantastic. At the moment I'm listening and committing to memory a number of string quartets, a most rewarding and energizing experience. What is required in doing this is not reason or logic but intuition, which reminded me of this inspirational book by Osho. I started to reread and couldn't stop. I wanted to share a few of my reflections.

“To know means to be silent, utterly silent, so you can hear the still, small voice within. To know means to drop the mind. When you are absolutely still, unmoving, nothing wavers in you, the doors open. You are part of this mysterious existence. You know it by becoming part of it, by becoming a participant in it. That is knowing.” ---------- Reminds me of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra urging us to flee from the flies of the marketplace; “You’ve been deafened by the noise of the great men and stung but the stings of the little men. Flee into your silence and solitude.” There comes a time when we have to turn off the TV and all the gadgets and simply rest in silence. There are few practices more refreshing.

“Intellect is your mind. Instinct is your body. And just as instinct functions perfectly on behalf of the body, intuition functions perfectly as far as your consciousness is concerned. Intellect is just between these two—a passage to be passed, a bridge to be crossed. ----------- This is a critical point that many people just don’t get: intuition is not a denial of reason or the opposite of reason, intuition transcends reason as, for example, when we look out at the ocean and feel a deep peace and oneness with the world or when we listen to a deeply moving piece of music.

“If the left hemisphere of the brain goes on dominating you, you will live a successful life—so successful that by the time you are forty you will have ulcers; by the time you are forty-five, you will have had at least one or two heart attacks. ---------- I vividly recall a friend of mine telling me he took everyone around him - friends, family, associates, people he met on the street - for granted and was focused on making money and being a great success in business. He then had a massive heart attack. He said when he was taken to the hospital in an ambulance, he appreciated people for the first time. Changed his life completely.

“Reason is an effort to know the unknown and intuition is the happening of the unknowable. To penetrate the unknowable is possible, but to explain it is not. The feeling is possible, the explanation is not.” ---------- Case in point: aesthetic experience. When creating in writing, music or the visual arts, we can’t be too conceptual since too much thinking can hold us back. I recall that quote from Louis Armstrong: “If you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know.”

“Because of the unknowable, life means something. When everything is known, then everything is flat. You will be fed up, bored.” ---------- Joseph Campbell reflected how the meaning of life is overemphasized, that is, figuring out the meaning of life isn’t really our prime question. The prime question we face is how we are going to live in a way that we feel completely alive. What I personally enjoy above Joseph Campbell’s words are the emphasis on ‘the way we feel’. In our modern world there is much too much disregard and disrespect for feelings and sensations. If we can relax into feelings and ongoing sensations, a rich, creamy many-textured world opens up.

Osho Art - Osho created a vivid work of art out of his own signature.

I enjoyed reading Freud’s book. When he speaks about dreams and their interpretation, I am reminded of a microfiction I had published years ago where the editor told me it was the weirdest story he has ever read and that a Freudian psychoanalyst would have a field day interpreting. Here it is below. If anyone would care to offer an interpretation according to Freud or any other school of psychoanalysis, I'm sure you could have some fun.

The Roof Dancer

Sidney and Sam, identical twins, crackerjack roofers, started work up on a roof one sultry July morning when Sam tripped on a piece of tar at the roof’s peak and slid down head first. He would have plunged straight to the ground if Sidney hadn’t reached over at the last moment and snatched him by his boots.

Hanging over the side upside-down, Sam had a view through a second floor bedroom window. The lady of the house was completely naked. Her ample rear end was bobbing and swinging to a polka playing on an enormous ancient phonograph.

Sidney yanked Sam back up to the roof but Sam became so excited in the process, he ejaculated his semen seed. By the time the seed popped out of the bottom of his dungarees, rolled off the roof and landed in the yard, it was the size of a cantaloupe.

From all corners of the yard kids skipped over and began frolicking with the seed. Its round contour grew to the size of a watermelon in their hands.

Sam stared down at the kids. He began a high-step gleeful dance, part mazurka, part gavotte, part rumba, part hornpipe right there on the roof, bottom to top, edge to edge, twirling like some enchanted wood nymph, his pot belly jiggling in pure ecstasy.

It wasn’t long before the man of the house, a bald, mustachioed Mr. Verea, made his way up the ladder. “What’s all this racket I’m hearing?” he asked, scanning the roof.

Sam pirouetted daintily at the peak, doffing his baseball cap. Mr. Verea grabbed Sidney by the suspenders and yelled, “Do you guys think I hired you to put a new roof on my house or perform ballet?”

“Yes, sir, right away, sir,” Sidney stammered, beads of sweat pouring off his forehead and bulbous nose.

Mr. Vera pushed Sidney rudely. “Now, I say, do it now!”

Sidney wobbled backwards, nearly toppling over the edge but regained his balance and shoved Mr. Verea back. A rapid-fire shoving match ensued along the entire length of the roof. At the same time Sam fluttered down on tiptoe, scooped up an armful of shingles and started putting them in place.

A fully-dressed Mrs. Verea made her appearance at the head of the ladder. “Get back down here,” she railed at her husband. “Let those men finish their work.”

“Nobody is going to push me on my own roof,” he replied.

“I say come down,” insisted Mrs. Verea.

“Come down yourself,” said Mr. Verea.

Stepping up from the ladder to the roof Mrs. Verea kicked her husband in the pants. He stopped shoving Sidney, turned around and started shoving her, whereupon she too started shoving him furiously.

Sidney fanned himself with his baseball cap and looked over at his brother – just now, between acrobatic leaps of a saltarello, Sam placed the last of the shingles on the tar.

As if he were at the court of Louis XIV, Sidney curtsied gracefully, then pointed to the ladder before climbing down himself. Sam followed, hips swinging but fell between the rungs. There was nothing for Sidney to do but guide the ladder, with his brother stuck in it, to the van.

The kids approached; they held the distended seed, the shape and length of a garden hose now: translucent with flecks of gold, sparkling, radiating light in their hands. When Sam jiggled and kicked down the driveway, the kids shook the magnificent seed, each shake casting out fine gold dust that turned to streams of water when it touched the earth.

This is German artist Max Ernst's collage-novel. He beckons us to provide our own personal interpretation to the captions and surreal collages he constructed from old picture books and journal so that we create our own version of the story. I did exactly that – and created my own micro fiction below:

-----

Black Collage

I’m constructing a Max Ernst-like collage out of last night’s dream. Here are the pieces: a room, a toilet bowl, a boy named Danny who has one red eye and one green eye, a menacing black-hooded figure and a host of animals: opossum, Tasmanian devil, wallaby, aardvark, baboon, rabbit, mallard, chameleon, bullfrog and snake.

The dream consists of the following: Danny walks into a room with a toilet bowl at one end and all those animals, stacked one on top of another like a totem pole at the other.

“I would really like to have a pet,” shouts Danny.

Hearing his wish, the animals flee – fly, run and crawl straight for the toilet bowl. All the animals escape except one – Danny catches the mallard by its rump feathers just as it is about to disappear down the plumbing. Not wishing to be converted to pet status, the mallard plays possum, closing its eyes and flattening itself out like a rug. At this point the hooded figure enters and accuses Danny of engaging in tasteless black humor.


Now for the collage: I place Danny in the middle giving him grasping, outstretched hands. Since I’m working like Max Ernst, that is, constructing a collage in black-and-white, I attempt to convey the bizarreness of Danny’s eyes by giving him the eyes of a fly. I then paste the baboon, wallaby, rabbit, aardvark and snake beyond Danny’s grasp and position the toilet bowl at the bottom with a string of other animals – opossum, chameleon, bullfrog and finally the mallard – heading its way.

The one in the hood goes at the very top of the collage. As for his comment about black humor, I think it only appropriate to give this menacing figure the head of a Tasmanian devil. With such an absurd head, let’s see how seriously anybody takes his comment about bad taste.

“We need myths to get by. We need story; otherwise the tremendous randomness of experience overwhelms us. Story is what penetrates.”
― Robert Coover

I think we can all agree on how one key ingredient for a good work of fiction is the aliveness of characters. But how far do we go with this? Case in point - I offer the following micro-fiction:

Real Life Characters

Basil Blackhorn is writing his novel. Basil Blackhorn is the kind of novelist who lets his characters develop a life of their own. Basil Blackhorn hears voices in his head, then writes what the voices tell him. The voices talk and talk and talk and talk and talk themselves out and finally resort to action.

The next morning the authorities find Basil Blackhorn slumped over his writing desk, his throat sliced by five thin slashes of a knife. The motive, background information and details of the slaying are described by the five main characters in the novel in progress on his desk.

What can be done? The five characters, so read the authorities, make a clean escape beyond many borders.

----

And when it comes to a master storyteller sharing advise on the magic of fiction, you will not find a better guide that Joyce Carol Oates. This is one book I refer to again and again.

Everybody loves a good story. But what about your own story? Years ago someone told me of their experience in a bar. Thus, my micro-fiction:

ALL IN THE TELLING

I’m feeling lonely, depressed, really down in the dog. I trudge to the closest bar and, after a couple of beers, proceed to tell the guy sitting on the next bar stool my life story. It isn’t pretty, but at least it’s mine.

When I’m all talked out, I toss a couple of bucks on the counter in disgust and hit the men’s room. But the time I’m back he is retelling my story to the guy next to him. I slide into a nearby booth so I can listen to his version without being seen. He has most of the facts straight, and the way he tells the story makes it sound really interesting.

When he’s done, the listener, in turn, begins telling my story to the guy next to him. Not bad. He also has the facts straight and his version is even more interesting than the first.

When he’s done, I can guess what’s coming and I’m not disappointed. Only this next guy telling my story isn’t just good, he’s a born storyteller. The way he embellishes my life with such pathos and humor, you would think I’m a real dashing, daredevil cavalier.

I want to hear the next version firsthand so I move alongside the listener. The storyteller finishes, pats him on the back and they both have a good hearty laugh. But when the storyteller leaves, my guy just sits there nursing his beer. I try to egg him on: “I only heard the very end but, wow, that was some story.” He doesn’t answer. After a few moments he sighs and tells me such a flat, lackluster, boring rendition, you would think he knows me better than I know myself.

In the tradition of Janwillem van de Wetering’s "The Empty Mirror" and Andrew Harvey’s "A Journey in Ladakh" recording the journey of a young man from the West making his spiritual pilgrimage to the East, we now have a splendid new entry with "The Yoga of Max’s Discontent" by Karan Bajaj. And since we all love to read stories, we are given some added spice – rather than a first-person account, Bajaj’s first-hand experience is rendered in novel form, a third-person narrative of Max, a bright, inquisitive New Yorker raised in the low-income projects, educated at Harvard (he won a scholarship) and working as an analyst in Manhattan until he has a spiritual crisis and is off to India to seek the way of the yogis and enlightenment.

To provide a reader with a more specific rasa, that is, taste of Max’s various experiences, here are several quotes from the book along with my comments. Incidentally, I feel a special connection with Max and also the author since, as a Westerner, I have received training under a number of outstanding teachers and have been practicing yoga and meditation for many years:

“They want to find it. Not just believe in it on faith or scripture, but see it face-to-face.” ---------- The appeal of the path of yoga and the enlightenment tradition is direct experience of the divine for the one who steps on and follows the path. Max’s yearning for this direct experience is the same yearning of yogis and Buddhists for the past thousands of years.

“More discussion followed. Authentic Indian and Middle Eastern restaurants, this club and that, what was so good, what was awesome, who was in the know, who wasn’t, drinking, eating and more drinking. Max recalled similar conversations- with a date or colleagues after work – and felt disgusted.” ---------- In a word, Max has had his fill of superficiality – loads of chatter and running after pleasures like a dog chasing its tale. There comes a point when a spiritual seeker rejects the common run of what passes for life in society and yearns for something deeper.

“He barely knew anything about yoga and meditation. The rational part of him still didn’t know what to make of this mystical mumbo-jumbo. And yet he felt compelled to find out exactly where the Brazilian yogi lived.” ---------- There is that part of us - call it consciousness, spirit, light or inner self - that is beyond the rational mind. Max can’t explain it but he senses its reality and yearns for a guide who can show him the way.

“He needed to take the next flight back to New York and get his shit together. No stupid questions, no privileged pontifications on the meaning of life – just live the life he and everyone else expected him to.” ---------- Ah! Once in India and embarking on the spiritual path, the ordinary world calls out, so many social responsibilities and expectations demanded of each individual. How authentic is Max’s quest? This is a challenge that must be faced by every true seeker.

“Next he learned sun salutations, a series of stretching and bending exercises that worked every part of the body from the tops of the arms to the backs of the legs, in an elegant dance.” ---------- As part of the spiritual path, Max discovers the body must be completely and totally transformed. Not easy, but no authentic spiritual teacher ever said the path is easy.

“Once again paranayama worked its magic. The careful, long exhalation meant an automatic long inhalation, which brought a fresh supply of revitalizing oxygen into the body. He wasn’t the breathless, sweaty mess he’d been when he had walked from the village to the ashram.” ---------- On the path of yoga, the bridge from the outer world to the inner is through the breath. Max has a direct experience of the power of breath – a clear sign he is on the right path and future transformations await.

“You have to work harder than ever before. Only the most accomplished of yogis achieve this union,” said Ramakrishna. “You will become the sum of all knowledge. Many powers will come to you. But all that has to be left behind. Falling from this state is easy if you develop even a shadow of an ego.” ---------- After gaining great powers through the practice of yoga, the yogi faces new challenges, including not using his or her power for selfish ends. Not easy. That’s why the path of yoga can be like walking on a razor’s edge.

“The universe is your teacher now. Consciousness will guide you to merge with it,” said Ramakrishna. “See it, hear it, feel it everywhere, within and outside everything. You have nothing more to learn from me.” ---------- Max has come a long way. At some point, the accomplished yogi looks to his own inner resources as the teacher rather than relying on an external guide.

Coda: I received a copy of this book in return for an honest review.

My top ten reasons why this Dashiell Hammett is one of the greatest crime novels ever written:

1. The Voice – Tough, Crisp hardboiled – the story isn’t told in first-person but certainly has the feel of first-person since we are so close to Sam Spade it’s as if we’re peering over the detective’s shoulder from first to last page.

2. The City – The buildings and streets in San Francisco have such a tangible presence, even today, after nearly 100 years, they still give Maltese Falcon tours.

3. Femme Fatale – Brigid O’Shaughnessy is the femme fatale. Her looks, her way of speaking, her cunning, her charms, her allurement– legions of writers of detective fiction have changed her name, her home town, color of her hair and eyes, but all you have to do is scratch the surface and there she is.

4. Outside the Law – Nobody likes a cog in the legal wheel or a grey flannel flunkey following orders. Sam Spade is anything but – an outsider to the police, district attorney and even his clients, Sammy is his own man, cracking the case in his own way, in his own time and even willing to get socked in the jaw by a police lieutenant or pulled in by a high ranking official to make it happen.

5. Tone – Sharp and crisp. If you read (and look) carefully, an entire world is disclosed, as for example: “Spade emptied the unconscious man’s pockets one by one, working methodically, moving the lax body when necessary, making a pile of the pockets’ contents on the desk. When the last pocket had been turned out he returned to his own chair, rolled and lighted a cigarette, and began to examine his spoils. He examined them with grave unhurried thoroughness.”

6. Violence – Nothing juices the action in a detective fiction more than cold bloody murder. An entire string of murders are featured here, all happening at the right time to accelerate tempo. Also, there’s a good amount of roughhouse, with the least likely man in the novel, Joel Cairo, getting beat up every time he turns around. Serves him right for thinking himself so refined and above it all.

7. The Color of Character – Dashiell Hammett set the gold standard here for writers of detective fiction. “The fat man was flabbily fat with bulbous pink cheeks and lips and chins and neck, with a great soft egg of a belly that was all his torso, and pendant cones for arms and legs. As he advanced to meet Spade all his bulbs rose and shook and fell separately with such step, in the manner of clustered soap-bubbles not yet released from the pipe through which they had been blown. His eyes, made small by fat puffs around them, where dark and sleek. Dark ringlets thinly covered his broad scalp. He wore a back cutaway coat, black vest, black satin Ascot tie holding a pinkish pearl, striped grey worsted trousers, and patent-leather shoes. His voice was a throaty purr.”

8. The Moral Code – As one character finds out the hard way, Sam Spade is a man of the high, uncompromising character. You will have to read the novel to find out just how high and just how uncompromising.

9. The Whole is Greater than the Parts – The Maltese Falcon has that special something that separates it from other crime fiction, even crime fiction of the first order. What is it? Hard to put your finger on it, but as millions of readers have discovered every time they pick it up, this is one doozy of a classic.

10, The Dingus – Ah, yes, the object of obsessive desire, the bird with all those long-lost jewels. Has there ever been a famous actor more closely connected with a famous object? And, yes, in many ways, the much sought after black bird adds a unique aesthetic dimension to this tale of noir.
++

Along with his plays and poetry, Uruguay’s Horacio Quiroga (1878 – 1937) penned short stories set in the Uruguayan jungle along the banks of the Upper Parana River. The author incorporates elements of magic and the fantastic to portray the struggle to survive for both humans and animals. In many of his tales, animals take on human characteristics, including speech, that serve as metaphor for how humans, as an integral part of the jungle ecosystem, deal with nature, making choices to either exploit the jungle to everyone’s detriment or live in harmony with nature. Personally, I found the eight jungle tales in this collection, which are, incidentally, suitable for children, a delight to read, tales with such titles as “The Story of Two Raccoon Cubs and Two Man Cubs,” “The Parrot That Lost Its Tail,” “The Blind Doe,” “The Lazy Bee,” and “The Giant Tortoise’s Golden Rule.” For the purposes of my review, I will focus on my favorite – “The Alligator War.”

Alligator Paradise: For a long, long time many hundreds and hundreds of alligators lived peacefully in the river, eating fish all day, eating dear at night, sunning themselves on the river bank on hot afternoons and even sporting and playing, slapping their tails under the moon at night. Ha! For human or animal, we all know what paradise on earth would be like: plenty of food for our tummy, pleasant weather, no troubles or worries and lots and lots of free time to rest and play.

Ominous Sound: But one day a young alligator cocked his ear and heard: Chug! Chug! Chug! He called out: hey, everyone danger, danger! Catching the sound, all the alligators were astir, looked at one another and asked, “What on earth is that?” A big old alligator said he was familiar with the sound and knew exactly what was coming up the river: a whale. But the sound gets closer and the object comes into view and passes – it’s a big wooden boat. I enjoy Horacio Quiroga letting the old alligator make a mistake – a very human quality of older members of society: they have experience and a degree of wisdom but they are far from infallible.

Grand Plan: The younger alligators jeer at the old alligator’s mistake but ask him what that thing was. He tells them a steamboat and how all the alligators will die if the steamboat continues to go up and down the river. At this, the young alligators burst out laughing, then turn away to go fishing. But, alas, bad news: no fish since the steamboat frightened all the fish away. Darn, the oldster was right this time! And same stuff the next day: the steamboat chugs up river and no fish. Oh, no! Dejected beyond words, the alligators admit they are doomed. But ingenuity to the rescue: a sharp alligator suggests they damn up the river so the steamboat can’t pass. Great idea! And the alligators go to work. All so very human: crisis strikes and the wits sharpen to devise a solution.

Confrontation, One: So, next day the steamboat chugs up river again and then stops. Men in a small rowboat approach the dam and a dialogue ensues, a dialogue I’d like to repeat here to give a taste of the author’s nifty, homespun language:
“Hey, you alligators!”
“What can we do for you?” answered the alligators, sticking their heads through the piles in the dam.
“The dam is in our way!” said the men.
“Tell us something we don’t know!” answered the alligators.
“But we can’t get by!”
”I’ll say so!”
“Well, take that old thing out of the way!”
“Nosireesir!”
The dialogue continues a bit more and ends in stalemate. The rowboat returns to the steamer. Again, the story is told in such appealing language – no wonder both adults and children have fallen in love with these jungle tales for more than 100 years.

Confrontation Two & Three: Next day, the boat comes upstream, only this time the alligators behold a bigger boat made of steel: an armor plated warship! A few good blasts and the dam is splinters and the boat passes. Undaunted, the alligators build an even bigger dam. But thanks to even bigger blasts, the warship passes yet again. No doubt about it, the alligators are forced to admit they are really doomed. What I enjoy here is how Horacio Quiroga captures the back and forth rhythm of weapons, defense and destruction, the brutal realities of war at all times and in all places.

When All Else Fails, Friendship: At this point, listening to alligator moans and observing alligator tears, the old alligator relays how when he was a boy he had a friend, the Sturgeon, who witnessed an ocean battle between two ships and was able to bring home a live torpedo. Let’s go ask if he will let us use his torpedo. Yes! As ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus astutely pointed out, having friends is critical to our overall happiness. And what is true for people is also true of states and nations – friendship means so, so much.

Big Blast: Turns out, the Sturgeon joins the alligators in launching the torpedo at the warship. Boom! Surprise, surprise for the sailors. However, when the sailors are swimming in shock in the river, the alligators exercise discretion and do not eat the sailors. Well, there was that one obnoxious officer who mocked the older alligator and ended up as alligator dinner. Anyway, there are several morals of the story – you will have to read for yourself to undercover them all. And this is an upbeat story with a happy ending.

Happy Ending: Here is how Horacio ends his charming tale: “The next day another steamboat came by; but the alligators did not care, because the fish were getting used to it by this time and seemed not to be afraid. Since then the boats have been going back and forth all the time, carrying oranges. And the alligators open their eyes when they hear the chug! chug! chug! of a steamboat and laugh at the thought of how scared they were the first time and of how they sank the warship. But no warship has ever gone up the river since the old alligator ate the officer.” Ah, to overcome one’s fear and maintain a lifestyle that nullifies the need for war. Sounds good to me, Horacio!

An unforgettable short tale from the pen of Uruguayan short story writer Horacio Quiroga. I have included a link at the bottom so you can read for yourself. Spoiler Alert: My analysis covers the entire story, beginning to end.

The Shock of the Coarse: “Alicia's entire honeymoon gave her hot and cold shivers. A blonde, angelic, and timid young girl, the childish fancies she had dreamed about being a bride had been chilled by her husband's rough character.” Alicia dearly loves her husband Jordan and Jordan loves Alicia, but that's “rough character” as in coarseness and dark animal passion conjoined with sexuality – not the tenderness of gentle, affectionate caresses Alicia dreamed about leading up to her wedding day.

Marital Highpoint In White: Alicia and Jordan live in bliss for three month. But their house is so white – bare white walls, white panels, white columns, white statues – giving the impression of a winter palace. All that bright glacial brilliance of white stucco would give anyone walking from room to room a distinct sense of unpleasant coldness. The whiteness in Horacio Quiroga’s story puts a reader in mind of Albert Camus' "The Stranger," the whiteness Meursault encounters at the old age home when sitting next to his mother's coffin, white as the color of existential alienation.

Retreat Into Oneself: In an attempt to ward off the white hostility of that white house, Alicia makes the decision to live like a sleeping beauty, to not so much as think of anything until Jordan arrived home in the evening. Sorry to say, Alicia’s retreat into herself is not that uncommon. There are many 19th and early 20th century tales of wives living out on stark isolated farms, miles away from friends, neighbors and family, that were driven mad by bare, white farmhouse walls.

Proposed Cure: Alicia grows thin, suffers influenza and one day, with barely the strength to venture outdoors to the garden, through sobs and tears, cries out her fears to Jordan. From this point forward Alicia is bedridden. The doctor is summoned and prescribes calm and absolute rest. I wonder how many thousands of women obliged to live in deadening isolation have likewise been prescribed calm and bed-rest. Of course, to suggest a change of scenery or even, more drastic, a change of lifestyle might upset the social order, thus much modern medicine and psychiatry is geared to maintaining the status quo and social stability, a stasis not necessarily in the best interest of the patient, particularly if the patient is a woman.

Hallucinations, One: Alicia’s health becomes progressively worse. Jordan paces back and forth outside her bedroom door and, disappointed, despondent, paces back and forth alongside the bed. Alicia begins to have hallucinations, hazy figures wafting in the air and then floating down to the carpet; opening her eyes wide, she stares at the carpet, breaks out in a sweet and screams. Jordan rushes to her side and tenderly holds Alicia’s hand. A Jungian psychologist once told me that in our modern world the defining illness is now autism; back in the 19th century and early years of the 20th century, the defining illness was hysteria.

Hallucinations, Two: The next days offer Alicia no relief, the hallucinations continue, her most recurrent hallucination: an anthropoid down on the carpet, balancing on its fingertips, staring up at her. Ahhhh! Our tale has shifted from illness to terror and horror. In a way, not all that surprising since Horacio Quiroga’s life was filled with violence, tragedy and suicides: his father was killed by a shotgun in an accident; his beloved stepfather shot himself and 17-year-old Horacio discovered the body; in his early 20s Horacio accidentally shot and killed one of his best friends; his first wife committed suicide leaving Horacio with two little children.

Monsters: There was a degree of letup during the day but at night the hallucinations became even more ferocious – Alicia felt as if her entire frail body was being squashed by a million-pound weight and she began to see monsters crawling on her bedspread. She then lost consciousness and raved for two whole days while Jordan continued his pacing. And then, mercifully, Alicia died. When a person suffers in the agony of a unceasing living hell, death can be a release and relief – a fact more people in modern society, particularly in the medical industry, are well to keep in mind.

Red Stains: Jordan approaches the bed and sees stains on the pillow he suspects are drops of blood. The servant says the stains look like punctures. Jordan orders her to raise the pillow up to the light. The servant obeys but quickly drops the pillow, trembling. The mention of blood associated with a recent death brings immediately to mind the presence of a vampire. Is it any surprise such an image spawned and entire genre?

Horror Revealed: Here are the words of Horacio Quiroga: “Jordan picked it up; it was extraordinarily heavy. He carried it out of the room, and on the dining room table he ripped open the case and the ticking with a slash. The top feathers floated away, and the servant, her mouth opened wide, gave a scream of horror and covered her face with her clenched fists: in the bottom of the pillowcase, among the feathers, slowly moving its hairy legs, was a monstrous animal, a living viscous ball. It was so swollen one could scarcely make out its mouth."

The Unspeakable: As it turn out, ever since Alicia took to her bed this hidden bloodsucker was sucking her blood. And, the author warns us directly how it is not uncommon to encounter bloodsucking monsters in a feather pillow. Such a tale of terror – the horror of the possible presence of a hidden monster that might suck our blood when we turn out the lights to go to sleep. Pleasant dreams.

Link to the story: http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks06/0606301h.html